


To Be Young and In Love

by holeofholland (orphan_account)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Action & Romance, Actor Tom Holland, Actors, Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Corruption, Danger, Drama & Romance, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, F/M, Falling In Love, Fame, Family Drama, Gangs, Gangsters, Golden Age Hollywood, Gun Violence, Implied Sexual Content, Old Hollywood - Freeform, On the Run, Plot Twists, Red Carpet, Some Humor, Strangers to Lovers, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:40:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23549299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/holeofholland
Summary: They say you never truly know a person. When it came to Tom Holland, the biggest name in Hollywood, nothing truer could have ever been said. He was handsome, glorious, oozed with sex appeal, and it was all I ever saw. I was young and I was in love, but I wish I hadn't been. Maybe then I would have opened my eyes to the grim and treacherous world he had dragged me into...before it became too late.Rated NC-17 for some depictions of gun violence, mild gang activity, and implied sexual behavior.
Relationships: Harrison Osterfield/Original Male Character(s), Tom Holland/Original Female Character(s), Zendaya Coleman/Tom Holland
Kudos: 3





	1. Making Headlines

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my new story! This is the first time I've written something with an original character and I'm really hoping it goes well. The idea for this story came from two things: my love for 1920s Hollywood and Lana Del Rey's song "Love." With these both in mind, I wanted to create a story where my favorite celebrities were thrown into the Golden Age of Hollywood. Make no mistake: this is not a time-travel story. This is an alternate universe where Tom Holland and the rest of the gang existed in 1929. 
> 
> Remember to follow my twitter @holeofholland for more stuff like my stories including sneak-peeks and extras!
> 
> Compared to my other stories, this one is VERY low on sexual content. I wanted this to be more plot-driven and focus on a wider story. So, with that in mind kick back and enjoy the story! xx

"I can't believe you're doing this," my sister squealed excitedly from the opposite side of the kitchen table. I couldn't help but smile at her excited demeanor. As far back as I could remember, Avery had been obsessed with the glitz and glam of the celebrity lifestyle. It was kind of to be expected, though. With her cropped blonde hair and sensually rounded pouted lips, she could have been a xerox copy of Marilyn Monroe. Maybe that was why she was her favorite movie star. Today, though, Avery's glee was based around a completely different leading light.

I shrugged my shoulders and shoved a brunt piece of toast into my mouth. "What's the big deal? He's just a guy."

"Just a guy?" Avery gasped, threw her hand over her chest, and looked stricken with grief. "He is _not_ 'just a guy.' I'll have you know he has won two Academy Awards, one in which" -- she practically melted into her plastic chair -- "he was without a shirt."

"Now, don't talk that way, Avery." My mother had entered the kitchen then, a basket of fresh chicken eggs on her hip.

"Good morning, Mother," I beamed, tossing my hair over my shoulder so she could see my outfit. It was a dress I had specially picked out for the occasion on my father's demand. He was adamant that no Halion was going to meet a celebrity dressed like she was out of the Chicago slums.

My mother eyed the purple and yellow fabric mindlessly, not commenting on the delicate lace I had specifically paid to have sewn on. "The paper should be in," she said instead, nodding towards the front door. 

"I'll get it," Avery volunteered, jumping to her feet in haste. 

My mother shook her head, watching her youngest daughter flee. "Sometimes I just don't understand that girl."

"Oh, Mother," I laughed playfully, "she's just starstruck."

"Yes, but by people she's never met. It's unhealthy. She needs to be focusing on the real world. She needs to find a hobby -- like you."

"It's a job, Mother. We've been over this."

"And as I've said a thousand times before, a job is paid." She sat the basket of eggs clumsily on the linoleum countertop. After grabbing a pan from the lower cabinet and setting it on the stove, she proceeded to crack two eggs. I watched her apathetically, not caring for the art of cooking. Neither did my mother, it appeared. She picked at the bubbling yolks with her spatula and stared lazily off at nothing in particular.

"Meghan, Meghan," Avery suddenly called, bursting back into the kitchen and practically throwing herself on my lap. Though my mother gave a disapproving look at this, I giggled joyfully. I knew in my heart that my little sister wouldn't always be so young and full of life. I planned on enjoying it as long as possible. 

"What is it, squirt?" I asked, poking her in the ribs. She answered by shoving that morning's headline into my face. I read it quickly, taking in the gut-wrenching words: **Woman Gunned Down in the Hills; Holland Suspected.**

"Oh my," I gasped. 

My mother reached over my shoulder and snatched the paper. Even she seemed enthralled with the story, reading aloud, " _A gloomy day in Santa Monica as last night police discovered an unidentified female with apparent bullet hole injuries. After careful tracing of shells found at the crime scene in the Hollywood Hills, police believe they have identified the attacker as famed cinematographer Harry Robert Holland. Holland has been believed to have been affiliated with members of the mob in the past, though no proof has ever surfaced. Currently, Holland is being held at the Los Angeles Police Department. It is unclear whether he has posted bail. If sources..._ " She stopped reading then, the rest of the story continued further in the pages.

"Can you believe it?" Avery cried, running to our mother's side to glance at the headline once more.

"No, uh, I can't." In truth, I was completely stunned. It seemed impossible.

"Well, that does it," my mother announced, tossing the newspaper onto the table. "You'll both stay indoors unless you're accompanied by someone else."

" _But Mommy,_ " Avery protested.

"None of that. This gunning was too close to our neighborhood."

"It's nearly ten miles away," I corrected her. "That's quite far from here."

"No arguing." My mother turned the oven off and plated the eggs, handing them off to my sister. "Your father will agree, I'm sure. Until then, someone will have to escort you to the office."

"I don't know anyone there but Knoble," I reminded her sharply. She scowled at me. I continued, "You know Daddy hates when I'm alone with boys, especially him."

"He'll make an exception for murder, I'm sure of it."

Avery gasped. "So, there's a killer on the loose?"

"No, there isn't. The paper said they have Harry Holland in custody. You don't have to worry."

My mother exhaled loudly, wanting us to hear. "Regardless, you'll be escorted." Then, to me, "Call Knoble and ask him if he can pick you up."

"He's probably already at the office."

"If this interview is so important, he'll come for you."

With that, any other argument would have been fruitless. The interview had been all I'd talked about for the past three weeks. When I had told my parents, they hadn't been thrilled. In fact, they hadn't seemed to care at all. To them, it was simply another part of my "hobby." Avery, on the other hand, was in the clouds to learn that I'd be interviewing one of the biggest names in the City of Lights. There was no way I'd be giving the opportunity up just because my mother was a bit paranoid.

+++

Fifteen minutes and one phone call later, a brown Pontiac had pulled to the curb in front of our house. I watched from the living room's bay window as my best friend and writing partner Knoble Johnson stepped out of the vehicle. I knew it was in my best interest that he not make it to the door lest my mother barreled him down with a million questions. 

"Bye, Avery," I whispered instead, winking at my sister.

She looked up and smiled widely from behind a copy of _Picture Play_. "Make sure you get me an autograph."

"I promise," I said. Then, I blew my sister a kiss and raced out of the house. As I came out onto the porch, I barreled right into Knoble's chest.

He held me straight by my shoulders and grinned apologetically. "I'm terribly sorry, Meghan. Are you alright?"

"Just," I assured him, then pushed past him to the Pontiac.

Rusted and looking as if it could fall apart at any moment, it would not have been my choice of transportation. It was good enough for Knoble, though, who had received the car from his grandfather the day he turned sixteen. In the past two years, it hadn't once broken down. So, maybe looks had been deceiving.

Knoble waited as I climbed into the passenger seat before joining me, positioning himself comfortably behind the steering wheel. He turned the key in the ignition and the engine roared to life. I shuddered, despite having ridden in the car countless times before.

"Still runs like a dream," Knoble bragged, slapping a palm against the dashboard.

We took off then, pulling into the busy street and moving slowly towards our destination of the Los Angeles Daily Times, the office where we both worked. On the way, we passed numerous shops appearing to be closed. The usual bustle of people had trickled to only a few dozen here and there. It was unlike the Los Angeles streets I knew.

I turned to Knoble. "Did you read the headline this morning?"

He eyed me and smiled. "Are you kidding? Who hasn't read it? A gal butchered? It's got everyone on their toes!"

"Technically, she was shot. 'Gunned down' as the headline put it."

"Gunned, stabbed, slice...it's all the same thing. So, do you think he did it?"

We pulled to a stop at an intersection, three cars ahead of us under the red light. I shrugged. "Maybe. They did trace the bullets. Who else would have done it?"

"The mob," Knoble suggested, slowly moving forward with the light now showing green. 

"What, to get back at Harry for something?"

It was Knoble's turn to shrug. "Not sure. If he _was_ working for them, though, he was bound to get under their thumb at some point. It'd be too easy to just kill him."

"Who wrote the article, anyway?" I asked, changing the subject.

" _Vallejo_ ," Knoble seethed, citing the name of the one writer at the Times who had beaten us out for the headline three months in a row. That was all going to change today, though. With an interview like I had, the headline was bound to be mine.

"I can't stand that bastard."

Knoble laughed wildly. "I still can't get used to a lady like yourself talking like that."

"I told you before, I am my own person."

"Yeah, I figured that the day you scolded me for holding your door open."

"And you haven't done it since, have you?" I smirked at my own stubbornness.

"Absolutely not."

The rest of the drive, all two minutes of it, was spent in silence. When we finally reached the office, Knoble ended up having to park in the back of the lot on account of the street meters were completed filled up. It made it so we had to walk a little farther, but I hadn't minded it. It wasn't even lunch and my interview wasn't scheduled until then. To pass the time, I decided I'd dig through the books and find out anything useful to add to my questions.

When we entered into the chaotic environment that was the intern office, Knoble and I waved goodbye. Off to the break room to do coffee runs is where he headed while I headed straight to the archives. Normally, the room lined with towering shelves and cardboard boxes was only to be accessed by interns when a reporter needed information. Considering I was doing the reporting this time around, I hadn't expected anyone to care.

I entered into the dimly-lit archives. Immediately, a small sense of dread crept up my spine. Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw shadows that seemed almost human and movement I could have sworn belonged to something not so human. The air smelled dank, unpleasant. I knew immediately that I did not want to spend too much time in the room.

I traveled straight to the card catalog, yanking open the drawer labeled "H." I fanned my fingers through, looking for anything helpful. Eventually, I stopped on the handwritten word, "Holland, T." I pulled the file free and scanned the listings. Only four were present, the oldest dating back to a year prior. I did my best to memorize the dates and stored the file back in its rightful place. 

I set off through the aisles of shelves then. It wasn't long until I had collected all four newspapers. With those in hand, I made for the reading lamp at the back of the room. I opened the first paper.

" _A hit and run accident occurred in the early hours of yesterday morning, July 6th,_ _1929_ ," I read aloud. " _Victim of the attack, one Barry Handleson, recounted to the police that the culprit responsible for causing the accident was Thomas Stanley Holland, actor of best-known films_ Seeing with Ears _and_ The Vacant Pit." 

"Jesus," a voice breathed from behind me.

I jumped and raised my fists in defense. There was no point, though. It was only Knoble, bent over with laughter and holding two paper cups of coffee. 

I smacked him on the arm. "How dare you. You know not to do that."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He sat one of the cups next to the archived papers and joined me at the table. "That story is insane, though."

"I know. I never knew he was involved in a hit and run."

"Who is to say he was, though? The paper didn't say he was caught."

"I guess not." I set the story aside and picked up a second paper. I had to flip through four pages before I found what I was looking for. "Listen to this. _Police arrested actor and rising musician Thomas Stanley Holland last night, July 18th, 1929, in relation to a hit and run accident earlier this month. When police arrived at his Hollywood Hills home, he was found to be inebriated. His girlfriend, Zendaya Coleman, allegedly told the police that Holland had been on a bender since the day before the said accident._ "

"Read the next one," Knoble urged, tossing the third paper at me. 

I scanned it quickly. "Okay, here it is. _This afternoon, in front of a county judge, Thomas Stanley Holland was found guilty in relation to a hit and run accident earlier this month. An official charge sheet states that Holland has been found guilty of driving while intoxicated and fleeing the scene of an accident. He faces up to three years in county jail if he doesn't pay his fine of $4,000 and complete his ordered 40 hours of community service._ "

"He's a drunk!" Knoble laughed heartily.

"Wait, wait," I said, grabbing the fourth paper. "There's one more. Look, it says, _Holland Acquitted of All Charges._ It's a headline."

"Shit," Knoble cursed, "how do you think he made that happen?"

"You're kidding, right?"

"You don't think...the mob?"

I shrugged. "What other way is there?" Then, it dawned on me. "Harry might be involved with them, and Tom is close with Harry -- that's not news. It would make sense."

"If Tom is just as involved as Harry might be, then...wait, you don't think..?"

"If he still lives there, and Harry was charged with that murder last night, I think Tom could have been involved."

Knoble looked at me, mouth agape. " _Holy shit_. You've got an interview with a murderer."


	2. Cafe Interview

"No, no," I argued, rushing out of the Times lobby and into the blazing summer heat. "We don't have any actual proof of that."

Knoble trailed behind me like a lost puppy, rambling off different ideas involving the previous night's shooting. "What if _he_ did it and just framed his brother, huh? It'd be easy. Actors are more valuable than the people who sit behind the cameras."

I rolled my eyes but didn't answer. Truthfully, I didn't want to think about the possibility of my interviewee being a cold-blooded killer. It was hard enough thinking his brother was involved in a heinous crime, but Tom Holland himself? It seemed both implausible and frighteningly possible. 

"Look," Knoble carried on, inserting his key into the Pontiac's lock, "I just think he may know more about the whole picture."

"Was that a play-on word?" I teased.

"Which one?"

"Picture? Motion picture?"

Knoble grinned widely. "No, but that's really good. I'll have to use that in an article. You know, if I ever get one."

With the car unlocked, I climbed in and settled myself. Knoble climbed in after, starting the engine in a hurry and speeding out of the office's parking lot. 

"You'll get an interview," I assured him as we sped on.

Knoble's face appeared stoic. "I know."

It pained me to see the hurt that I knew he was hiding. For as long as I could remember, Knoble had had this uncontrollable sense of adventure -- of mystery. He longed for the investigative sleuthing that came with being a reporter. When we had first begun working at the Times, he would take whatever assignment his higher-ups were given and write his own pieces, regardless if they were to be published or not. They never were.

"Hey," I said, placing a gentle hand on his arm, "you'll get the next one. It's a matter of chance, remember?"

"Yeah, sure." 

For the rest of the drive, I stared out the passenger window and gazed at the people passing by. The amount of them had appeared to dwindle even further since the morning. It was almost as people knew a second attack was coming. I surely hoped not. There was no sign of one and the man believed responsible for the initial one was in jail. Wasn't he?

Not long later, Knoble slowed and pulled off into the parking lot of a local cafe. Instantly, my stomach began to churn. I could feel my face growing hot and bile threatened to rise in my throat. It was all nerves, I knew, but that didn't help the fact. Many irrational -- or maybe even rational -- fears invaded my mind. Over and over I sped through them like a Rolodex of consequence. Tom doesn't show. That wouldn't be the worst thing. Tom refuses to answer my questions and instead gives me three sentences before fleeing. Still not awful, but it might make my boss think I wasn't worthy of such a prolific task. Or Harry could be on bail and come to take me out as his next target. Yeah, that was the worst one.

"I can't do it," I blurted.

"Why not?" Knoble asked. "You're practically a natural at interviews."

"I've never done one!" I shrieked.

Knoble laughed uneasily. "Okay, okay. We'll figure this out. Do you want me to go in with you?"

I turned and latched my hands onto his shoulders. "You do that for me?"

"Why not? I'll sit in a booth a little away and step in if anything goes awry."

I shook my head. "You know, you really should have been the one given this interview."

"Nah. I don't do celebrities. I might make them mad and they'll have me gunned down."

"Knoble! Not helping."

"Sorry, sorry." He looked around the nearly empty parking lot. "Okay, are you ready?"

I nodded, still unsure. "I don't think I have a choice."

+++

The cafe was chilly upon entering. The walls, white brick and lined with signed photos of starlets, caught my attention immediately. It was a scene straight out of a movie. The booths, black and gold, were in pristine condition. The floor seemed to glow. When I looked down -- sure enough -- I saw my reflection.

"Pretty clean place," Knoble muttered in my ear.

"Maybe that's why he recommended it," I suggested, recalling when Tom's agent had called to give me the address.

"That looks like a great spot." I looked where Knoble was pointing, a booth encompassing a framed photo of Myrna Loy.

"Tough act to follow."

Knoble scoffed. "Loy? Please. Garbo or Davis could beat her out easily."

I laughed, a little bit of the nerve wearing off. "I'll go sit, then. He shouldn't be long."

We separated then, Knoble finding a booth far enough away that I could still see him. I made myself comfortable in the leather seat and pulled my notepad from my purse. I flipped through until I found my notes for the interview. There wasn't too much listed. It was my own fault, really. My overconfidence had made me think I could come up with questions on the fly. Sitting in the booth, though, minutes away from the actual interview, I wasn't too sure.

Suddenly, the bells hanging above the cafe's door sang out. My body responded by tensing up, my heart rate accelerating and sweat beading on the back of my neck. I was thankful I had decided to wear my hair down that morning. Otherwise, I'd look even more unprofessional to one of the biggest names in Los Angeles.

"Miss Halion?" a recognizable voice spoke from above me. I looked up sharply and locked eyes with Tom.

"Y-yes," I managed before turning away in a fluster.

Tom only chuckled at this, gliding into the seat across from me. Peeking at him, I noticed his gray polo seemed tighter than was usually the case in the magazines. His hair, brown and curled, seemed unkempt and like an afterthought to the rest of his appearance. On his wrist was an expensive-looking watch. 

He lowered his head and looked at me, a friendly smile showing. "You're nervous." He said as a fact and not a question, which only fueled my tenseness. "You don't have to be. Just pretend we're having a casual conversation." He raised his head, then, and I followed suit. I fumbled with my notepad as he looked around the cafe, apparently searching for a waitress. "Excuse me, ma'am?" he called, noticing a short, blonde girl assisting Knoble.

She rushed to our booth. "Oh, Mr. Holland," she gushed, pink and giddy. "What can I get for you?"

"Hi, love," he mused, a smoothness to his English accent. "how are you this fine afternoon?"

The waitress who was named Leta, according to her name tag, seemed taken aback by the question. "I-I'm good, M-Mr. Holland. And y-yourself?"

"I'm doing well. About to start an interview for the Times. Exciting, isn't it?"

"Y-Yes, indeed."

"I'm actually feeling a little adventurous, love. How about yourself?" This time, the question was directed at me. 

"I'm sorry?" I queried.

"Yes. Say, how do you take your milkshake? Strawberry, chocolate? Maybe the ever-so-boring vanilla?"

"I, uh, well. I suppose Chocolate."

Tom grinned, his pearly white teeth on display. "Splendid." Then, to Leta the waitress, "Two chocolate milkshakes, please." He fished into the front pocket on his polo and pulled a $50 bill free. "Keep the change."

"Oh, Mr. Holland..."

"No need," he assured, cutting the waitress off. With that, she rushed off into the kitchen portion of the cafe. Tom turned to me then, that same smile still wide as ever. He stayed silent as if waiting for me to speak.

I cleared my throat, fighting back the sick feeling in my gut. "So, um, how do you like Hollywood?" 

"Well, I've been here for four years. It's kind of an odd place, I suppose."

"Right," I nodded, my face feeling hot. "I forgot you've lived here a while." 

"It's quite alright. But, say, do you have any questions that haven't been asked before?" I gave him a quizzical look, slightly offended. "Oh, no, I didn't mean...What I meant was do you have any exciting questions." He scratched his jaw. "Damn. I suppose there isn't a polite way to phrase it."

I hiccuped at that, the tiniest giggle escaping my lips. "I'm so sorry," I said, covering my mouth with my palm. I could only imagine what he thought of my bad manners.

"Why apologize?" he said, eyebrow raised slyly.

I didn't say anything to that and instead bowed my head to my page of potential questions. I scanned through them in hopes of finding one at least the smallest bit original. None of them were. In fact, I had probably seen all of them in a magazine at least once in my life. 

Tom tapped a skinny finger on the notes. I jerked back in surprise, pulling the pad with me. Tom laughed again in response. "Private questions, eh?"

"Well, actually," I admitted timidly, "they're not anything you haven't seen. I suppose I thought they might be conversation starters."

"Nonsense," Tom said, waving his hand. "Ask me what you want."

"Okay." I thought for a moment, then asked, "What's your favorite film to have worked on?"

" _Linda's Basket_ ," he stated blandly. He leaned forward then, a mischievous look overtaking his features. Our noses were mere inches apart. My breath was caught in my throat. Never had I imagined I'd be so close.

Tom cocked an eyebrow. "That's not the question you really want to ask, though, now is it?"

"I-I don't...I'm not sure what you mean."

"Sure you do. The gunning. My brother. No doubt you've looked into my past." He leaned back and reached into his polo, this time retrieving a thick metal box. I knew instantaneously that it contained cigarettes. On closer inspection, I realized that they were even the same kind my father favored -- _Lucky Strike_.

"I don't believe what they say," I blurted. "About cigarettes? They aren't healthy."

Tom guffawed. "Everyone knows that, love. They taste too damn good to stop, though. That's the problem." He looked at the white stick, pondering. "You know, I'll die one day. And I'm damned near certain it'll be these that do the bidding."

I gasped. "So, why not quit?"

He brought a match that I noticed before up to the end of the cigarette and turned it bright orange. He brought it to his lips and inhaled, holding the smoke until it began leaking through his nostrils. He leaned forward once more, but this time his face was stoic. "You know, Miss Halion, you'll soon find that Hollywood is not as glamorous as you think. It's a world that people die to enter, and even more would kill to leave."

I coughed as he blew the rest of the smoke in my direction. His words had struck a chord with me. What had he meant "even more would kill to leave?" Was he referencing Harry or had it been a simple coincidence, a mere analogy of the celebrity lifestyle? For my sake, I dearly hoped it was the latter.

"Alright, here is two chocolate milkshakes," Leta interjected. She sat two large glasses on the booth's table and said nothing else. As she flounced away, I took notice in Tom's gaze following her backside. 

I cleared my throat subtlety, catching his attention. He turned and grinned. "Well, drink up. It'll melt in this blistering heat, air conditioning or not."

The shake tasted better than I had expected, sweet and sugary against my dry tongue. In my selfish sipping of it, I failed to notice Tom hadn't touched his. As my glass was now half-full, I felt like a genuine pig.

I brought a napkin from the dispenser to my lip. "My apologies for my manners."

"It's kind of cute," Tom answered in response. My mouth fell agape. Out of all of the things I expected to hear from his lips, that was not one of them. Tom didn't seem to notice, though. He moved the conversation forward as if nothing had happened. 

"So, was I correct in my assumptions? Did you go looking up my past?"

"Y-Yes. I was curious."

"Curiosity never hurt anyone. So, do tell me, what did you find out?"

"You have a record."

"Obviously. What starlet doesn't? But, tell me, what does my record say?"

He was toying with me. The sly smirk he wore was evident enough of that. It ground at the gears in my head. Slowly the nervousness dissolved. If he was going to play coy, I was going to match set.

I cocked my head to the side, confident. "You have a history with alcohol, Mr. Holland."

"Tom, please."

"You were found guilty of hitting someone and fleeing the scene. You were _supposed_ to serve community service and pay a fine, but somehow you got out of it. It was probably your money or your connections. The only question is exactly who are those connections? Surely, not the courts. They wouldn't have tried you in the first place. So, who was it, Mr. Holland? Who set you free?"

Tom leaned back, looking almost proud. He clapped slowly. It was one of those sarcastic claps that you often saw in his films. "Well done, Miss Halion. Two things, though." He stood and lowered his hand for me to take. "I paid the fine -- a gift of sorts to the judge. And I told you, please call me Tom."

In less than a minute, this man had shot down every inch of confidence I'd rebuilt. No one had ever had such power over me. What else could I do, then, but accept his hand and join him on my feet? 

"Is the interview over?" I probed.

"Not quite. You asked who was able to help get me off? If you want to know so bad, I'll show you. I do warn you, though. Once you're in, Hollywood won't let you leave." He made for the door, stopping only when he sounded the bell.

I looked at Knoble, still in the farthest booth of the cafe, for support. Hopefully, he would know what to do. He only looked at me though, his face a frozen piece of astonishment. 

"Oh," Tom added, hand still on the glass door handle, "your friend can come along." Then, as if he could read my mind, he finished by confirming, "Oh, yes, I knew he was there. A reporter needs her security just as much as me. So, let's go."


	3. New Faces

I laughed wildly at the sight of the car -- a roofless, black chrome Cadillac. It appeared fresh out of the shop, its paint reflecting under the sun. Never in my days had I seen such a beautiful vehicle up close. My father had always promised we would one day own one as a family, but my mother and I knew it was wishful thinking. We'd never own a car like that. Yet, here I was tempted to climb into one. The situation was almost humorous. 

Tom gave me a quizzical look. "What's so funny? Do you not like it? I can call for a different one."

" _You have more_?" Knoble exclaimed, rushing up to the driver's side. He ran his palm against the door and immediately realized what he had done. "Oh, no. I wasn't supposed to touch it."

"Nonsense," Tom waved. "I have people to clean it. It's looking a little dirty anyway." Glancing at the pristine condition of the vehicle, I wondered how different our understandings were in cleanliness.

"And we get to ride in it?" Knoble prodded. Actually, it sounded almost like a plea.

Tom smiled. "For about fifteen minutes. I just live up in the Hills."

"So you do live there." I meant for the statement to be for myself, but I blurted it too loud and Tom took notice.

"I do. Why? Was that a question you had in your notes? All of my family lives there."

He waltzed towards the car's passenger door and held it open for me. Going against my usual tyranny of independence, I accepted the offer and climbed into the leather seats. As Tom closed the door with a bang, I curled my arms into my lap; the door was much too hot to touch. Knoble climbed in after, then Tom. With all of us settled, Tom and I in front and Knoble in the back, the engine roared to life and we peeled out of the cafe's parking lot.

On the way, we all laughed as Knoble continuously pointed out features of the Cadillac. You would have thought he'd never been inside one before. To be fair, though, neither had I. I suppose I was simply better at hiding my childish emotion.

Eventually, Tom slowed the car in front of a large spiked fence. It loomed tall and ominous, casting a dark shadow on us. I shuddered, realizing the gate was more than impenetrable. It only further confirmed my suspicions that Harry was responsible for the previous night's shooting, or at least that a resident of the gated community was.

"This will just take a second," Tom said. He pulled the car a little farther forward so that he came face to face with a window displaying a security guard. The guard, a balding man of a certain age, glanced at the vehicle without saying a word. This didn't seem to bother Tom. He just smiled and watched as the guard climbed from behind the window and walked to the gate. He opened it manually, allowing just enough room for us to squeeze through.

Tom thanked the man with a wave and we continued on up the steep incline that would eventually lead to Tom's elaborate Hollywood home. The thought of it made me more excited than nervous, which was surprising compared to the nausea during the interview.

"Woah," Knoble breathed in my ear. Though it took me a second, I saw exactly what he was gasping at. 

Sitting on what appeared to be the highest point of the Hills was a two-story house not unlike the art-decos scene in the magazines. It was solid white with wide windows running the perimeter. A large blue door stood in an enclosure that I was sure was a front patio. The yard was cut to perfection, not a single blade of grass out of place or a leaf fallen. Hedges lined close to the sidewalk, not too high so as to hide the house's architecture. It was absolutely stunning.

"There's no way you live here," I said. 

Tom shrugged. "Well, it's not just me. Two others reside with me."

"Who?" Knoble interjected rudely. I smacked him on the arm to remind him of his manners. Tom didn't seem to care, though.

"Why don't we go find out?" He parked the car in a long, pebble driveway and killed the engine. In excitement, I jumped from the vehicle without waiting for assistance. This also didn't seem to bother Tom. He must have been used to free-spirits as I considered myself.

"You'll find the mudroom through the front door," he called out as I raced up the front steps. "Just follow it through to the kitchen."

As I swung open the towering blue door and entered into the cool home I practically collapsed. My knees buckled and I grabbed onto a nearby coatrack to steady myself. The inside of the house was even more beautiful than the outside. The walls, still white, were meticulously lined with abstract artwork and stills taken from Tom's earliest films. In one, he stood with a fedora in hand and his head hung as if in disappointment. I didn't recognize the film but found his depiction moving all the same.

I stepped farther into the mudroom, taking in the rest of my surroundings. In one corner, a large metal shelf held countless pairs of expensive-looking shoes. From Avery's magazines, I recognized a couple of pairs known to be worn by Marlon Brando. I wondered if they _had_ belonged to the actor and perhaps Tom was a close friend.

"So, what do you think?" Tom's voice echoed, stepping into the house. I turned to see Knoble standing beside him. He appeared to be having the same reaction I had. 

He pointed to the ceiling. "Check out the chandelier!"

"Imported," Tom informed us. "Italy or France. I can't really recall."

"You live luxuriously, then, I see." I chanced a touch at a framed photo of Tom dressed as a belly dancer in one of his earliest comedies. 

Tom stepped behind me and whispered, "I thought the outfit made me look fat."

I giggled, running my finger across a pouch of skin hanging over the sheer skirt. "Perhaps a little pudgy."

"Hey," Tom cried in defense, though he still smiled. "It was for the role. Besides" -- he lifted his shirt up, catching me off guard and sending me tumbling back -- "I've gained my muscle back." 

I gaped at the carved muscles on his stomach. "I-I can see that."

He dropped his shirt down and laughed. "How's that for a conversation starter?" He walked off then, disappearing through a doorway that must have led to the kitchen as he mentioned earlier. While Knoble followed behind, I stayed put. My mind raced with what had just happened. On one hand, I rationed that the gesture was simple fun. On the other hand, and completely off the wall, I thought Tom might have actually been flirting with me. 

"You coming?" Knoble asked, poking his head back through the doorway. I nodded and tumbled after him. 

We ended up in the kitchen, as I successfully assumed. It was just as white and cooly decorated as the mudroom, except that there were no framed photos on display -- just artwork. A glass table sat off to the right, big enough to hold eight chairs. To the left, the normal kitchen appliances stood. Tom walked to what, at first, I thought was the refrigerator but turned out to be a drink cooler. From it, Tom retrieved three Cokes. He tossed two to Knoble and I respectively then continued on to another room.

We followed him into the living room where three sofas formed a "U" shape in front of a black-bricked fireplace. Hanging above it was a massive photo of Tom and two men I didn't recognize. One looked similar to Tom and I assumed was Harry. The other, a lanky man with spiked hair wasn't discernible. Tom followed my gaze and grinned at the photo. 

"My brother and best friend." He walked up to the photo and pointed, "That's me, Harry in the middle because he's the shortest, and Harrison on the far right."

I glanced around at the rest of the photos, all showing Harry or Harrison in some form. "You're into family, then?"

Tom nodded, taking a sip from his Coke. "I wouldn't be who I am without them."

"What about Zendaya?" Tom and I turned to face Knoble who stood with a regretful look on his face. "I'm sorry if...I didn't mean to interrupt..."

"Not at all," Tom assured him, smiling wide. "Uh, Zendaya and I are a little separated right now. We took a break."

"From the accident?"

" _Knoble_ ," I hissed.

Tom laughed. "It's fine, I promise. If you must know, yes. She was tired of my drinking habit and left. I sobered up and haven't touched it since a week after her departure."

"That's nearly eleven months," I figured. "Congratulations."

"Thank you." He fished into his polo pocket and retrieved a second cigarette to match the one in the cafe. "Now if only I could kick this damn smoking habit."

"My uncle quit by chewing on straws," Knoble suggested.

"Hm," Tom nodded. An awkward silence hung in the air for a few seconds. It was interrupted only when the doorbell sounded. 

The chime echoed throughout the entire house. Though it startled Knoble and me, Tom just followed it to its source at the front door. From where we remained in the living room, I strained to make out Tom's voice.

"Be more careful next time," is what I thought I heard Tom whisper.

A second voice appeared to have responded with, "I will next time."

Footsteps moved towards us then. Tom walked back into the living room, but this time with a guest. I immediately recognized him from the portraits. Harry Holland.

"Harry," Tom began, motioning to where we stood, "this is Meghan Halion and Knoble...I apologize. I don't believe I got your last name."

"Johnson," Knoble finished for him. "Knoble Johnson."

"It's a pleasure," Harry remarked blankly. He rushed past us then, down a long hallway that I assumed led to bedrooms and bathrooms.

"You'll have to excuse him," Tom apologized. "He's still a little shaken up from last night."

"The murder, you mean?" I edged closer, curiosity peaking.

"Yes, precisely. I suppose he just isn't used to being in a cell with so many criminals."

"It's just you two, then? Who lives here, I mean."

"No, Harrison _should_ be around, but God knows what he's up to." Tom walked to the edge of the hallway and cupped a hand around his mouth. "Haz! We have guests!"

We waited silently for a few moments until a door in the kitchen -- something I hadn't noticed before -- slid open and a sopping wet man stepped through. It was Harrison, no doubt. He was dressed in a thin, skin-tight pair of swim trunks that held buckled with a white strip of fabric. His body, more chiseled than his photos would have you think, glistened with water droplets. His hair that was usually spiked in the photos drooped over his forehead.

He wiped at a droplet of water on his cheek. "Yeah, what's up, mate?"

"Haz," Tom noted once more, "this is Meghan Halion and Knoble Johnson. They're reporters from the Times come to interview me."

"Wasn't the interview somewhere in the city?"

"At a cafe, yes. Miss Halion, however, was interested in more in-depth topics."

Harrison's eyes lit as if he recognized something Tom was trying to convey. "I see. Well, if you need to go to your office, I can keep Mister Johnson busy."

"Oh, I don't want to be any trouble," Knoble worried.

"Nonsense," Tom assured him. "Harrison is a fine swimmer. I bet he'd have a pair of trunks in your size. Why not go for a dip?"

"Oh, well, I don't know if --."

"You look like my size. Come, let's check my wardrobe." Harrison darted to towards the hallway, beckoning Knoble to follow. Once out of sight, Tom turned to me.

"You want the real story, right? Deep, gritty, truthful?"

I was taken aback by the sudden question, but I knew how to answer. "I'm a reporter. That's _all_ I come for."

"Well, then." Tom stepped to the first door on the right in the hallway and swung it open to reveal a staircase. "Follow me to find all your answers."


	4. The Interview Continues

“Please,” Tom said, motioning to two leather-bound office chairs, “make yourself comfortable.”

I slid gingerly into the one on the left, keeping my knees knitted together and my bottom just on the edge of the leather as my mother had always taught me. Though, really, I don’t know why I did. I hadn’t cared much for posture before. In fact, it was one of the many things my mother and I continuously argued over.

Tom sat across from me in a chair identical to mine, only the back taller. A large cedar desk separated us. On it, splayed out haphazardly, were multiple office supplies – a stapler, a few pens, some sloppily-written documents. It looked like a workplace used often.

“Now, you’re comfortable?”

I glanced up, startled at Tom’s voice interrupting my thoughts. “Yes, thank you very much.”

He smiled, cocking his head to the side and placing his hand against his cheek. His pinky lay just beneath his bottom lip. He stared at me, not speaking but appearing to _admire._ Surely, though, that couldn’t have been what was happening. I knew better than to suggest such fantasies. That was usually Avery’s department.

I cleared my throat. “So, you wanted to continue the interview?”

“Mhm.”

“Well, where should we pick up?”

“How about with my brother?”

“E-Excuse me?” I felt my face turning hot. It was a question seething with agitation, yet Tom’s face remained pleasant.

“Please, Miss Halion. I know what you want to ask. I’ve seen it in your eyes since I introduced myself.” He sat up against the desk and absent-mindedly fiddled with a stray paperclip. “I do read the Times, you know. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have agreed to meet with you. I saw the headline this morning.”

I gulped. “I’monlysupposedtoreportonyourlifeasastar.” The words came out rushed and jumbled. Uneasiness began to creep up my spine. I darted my eyes over my shoulder, checking that the office door remained locked.

“Don’t worry, Miss Halion. Just because your article is on one thing doesn’t mean you can’t ask me something for your own sake. I say, would it make you feel better if I asked you something?” I stared without blinking. “Alright, let me think about this.

“Have you ever done anything rebellious?”

“I…well, I suppose.” Truthfully, I was struggling with an answer.

Tom leaned back, seemingly happy with my answer. “What was it?”

“Well, um…” I wracked my brain but still struggled to come up with anything. For as long as I could remember, I had always been an angelic child. I followed every rule and never went against my parent’s wishes. Even when taking up an intern position at the Times, I had only done so under my father’s special permissions.

“I’m sure you’ve done _something._ Come on, what was it? Sneak out with a boy? See a bad film with some girlfriends? Still from your father’s liquor cabinet?”

“My father doesn’t drink,” I stated defensively.

Tom threw his hands up in surrender. “My apologies. There has to be something, though. Come on, you answer my question and I’ll answer one of yours.”

I bit my lip. “Well, I suppose my parents wouldn’t really approve of me being alone with you, even being a movie star.”

“Smart parents,” Tom mumbled. I pretended not to hear even though the uneasy feeling burned on.

“So, my turn?” I asked shyly.

Tom nodded.

“Okay. And you won’t get mad?”

“Ask anything, Miss Halion. Curiosity will eat you alive if you don’t let it out.”

He was right, of course. I knew I’d continue to theorize with Knoble if I didn’t learn something concrete.

I inhaled deeply and let my question fly. “Did Harry kill that girl?”

Tom stared at me emotionlessly. Then, he began laughing. It was small at first, a slight chuckle really until it grew into a massive chortle that echoed off of the office’s bare walls.

He rose from his chair, still laughing, and walked to the only decoration in the entire room – a western landscape. I watched as he lifted the painting from its hung position and revealed a black combination safe.

“What is that?” I wondered aloud.

Tom didn’t answer and instead turned the lock three times until a loud click sounded. With his back now to me, obscuring my view, he dug into the safe’s contents. When he turned around, revealing what was inside, I screamed.

“Relax,” Tom cooed, holding a silver revolver in his right hand. He returned to his desk chair, leaving the safe as was. “Geez, you act as if I’m about to shoot you.”

“Y-You’re not?”

“No! Why on earth would I do that?”

“I asked about your brother. I figured it was inappropriate.”

“Oh, and that deserves a few rounds?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“Miss Halion, I want you to understand something about this gun.” He sat it atop the desk’s surface. “This gun is registered to Harry Robert Holland – my brother. This gun has been in that safe” -- he pointed to the black box implanted within the wall – “for nearly two weeks. If you look inside the barrel, it’s fully loaded and unused.”

“But, h-how can you prove that?”

Tom shrugged. “I suppose I can’t. However, I’d like to believe you’d go off of your instinct and trust in me.”

“I’ve known you for less than a day,” I scoffed, my fear turning into festering anger.

“Likewise, yet I can’t help but feel that perhaps you’re someone useful to know.”

“ _Useful?_ ”

“Miss Halion, there’s one thing to know about the people of this great city. _None_ of them are your friends. But none of them are your enemies either…if you play your cards correctly.”

“Excuse my saying so, _Mr. Holland_ , but you’re absolutely no sense.”

“And I do hope it stays that way.”

“Wait, wait.” Everything he was saying seemed only capable of muddying my mind. I had nearly forgotten about Harry. “If your brother didn’t kill that girl—.”

“Miss Brookes, you mean?”

“Miss… _You know her name?_ ”

Tom sighed and stood from his seat. He slowly circled around the desk and leaned against it, his body near inches from mine. “I’d like to confess something to you, but you must promise _never_ to tell anyone.”

“I’m a report, Mr. Holland. With all due respect, I can’t keep promises like that.”

“Alright, fair enough. I trust you.” He squinted his eyes almost as if in pain. “You see, my brother has many peculiar _interests._ ”

“Interests?”

“Yes, and one of those interests is the company of women – women he doesn’t have to work very hard for.”

It connected then. “Prostitution.” The mere word left a sour taste in my mouth.

“Precisely. Now, I’ve never approved of it. That doesn’t stop Harry, though. At least once a week he’d meet Miss Brookes and partake in certain activities. Well, the last time they met I guess Harry refused to pay Miss Brookes for her service. I don’t know why; he won’t tell me.”

“Stop, stop, stop,” I interjected, trying to process the information coming at me like a speeding train. “How long had he been seeing this girl?”

“A few months. That’s not important, though. What _is_ important is that on the night Harry refused to pay, Miss Brookes told her employer.”

“Oh, no.”

“Mhm. Thus, Harry made some very powerful people angry. They could’ve killed him, of course. Made it easy and clean. That wouldn’t have been enough for them, though. He’d need a heavier weight on his shoulders.”

“They made him kill her?” The idea wasn’t new to me. It was quite common for hitmen to be hired throughout the entire country.

Tom shook his head, staring off into the distance as if thinking. “No. That I know for certain. He was here with me last night.”

“So, if Harry didn’t kill Miss Brookes? The question is…who did?”

Tom smirked at me; an eyebrow raised. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

+++

With our interview concluded, Tom and I headed to the backyard. There, we found Harrison and Knoble, the latter attempting to float on the pool’s surface while the former held him by his lower back.

“I’m going to sink,” Knoble laughed, splashing water wildly with his arms.

Harrison squinted his eyes at the water hitting his face but joined in the glee. Neither of them seemed to notice us even though we stood in clear view. I couldn’t blame them, though. The water looked refreshing and they were having a good time. It felt wrong to speak up and spoil the fun.

Tom did anyway.

“Boys,” he announced, stepping to the pool’s edge.

Knoble glanced up and immediately began flailing his body, apparently sinking. Harrison latched on to him, pulling him into a sideways hug until he steadied himself. I couldn’t be for sure, but I could’ve sworn Knoble’s eyes had twinkled at the gesture.

“Interview is over, I take it?” Harrison queried, glancing from Tom to me, and back again.

“Yes,” Tom confirmed. “I think it time I escorted Miss Halion and Mister Johnson home.”

“A shame. We were having so much fun.”

Knoble seemed to agree, a saddened look on his face. He pulled himself up onto the concrete lining until he stood on his own two feet. He turned and smiled at Harrison. “Thanks for the swim. Oh, and the lesson, of course.”

“Anytime,” Harrison said coolly, wading over to Harrison’s feet.

“I’ll, uh, leave your trunks in the changing room, then?”

Harrison scrunched his nose playfully. “Just keep ‘em. They never were my color.”

I looked at the bright orange trunks tied to Knoble’s waist, trying to picture Harrison in such a color. He was right, though. I couldn’t see him wearing such a color. On Knoble, however, they looked nice.

“Well, thanks.” Knoble blushed, then took off towards the changing rooms on the opposite side of the pool.

“You’re a fan of Tom’s then?” The question was directed at me.

“I, uh, I guess. I’ve seen a couple of films. My sister is the real fan, though.”

“Yeah?” Harrison pondered the idea. “I’m guessing she’s, what, twelve or thirteen?”

“Yeah…Thirteen, actually.”

“That’s usually the ones who go for him.”

“Make me sound like a creep,” Tom interjected, sighing sarcastically.

I opened my mouth to defend him, but Knoble came running towards us before I could. He was dressed in his street clothes, the wet trunks tucked beneath his arms.

“Ready?” Tom asked, nodding at him.

“Yeah.”

“Great. I’ll take you both home.”

I followed Tom then, back through the mudroom and into the driveway where we climbed into his Cadillac. Knoble trailed behind us, taking longer than his usual quickstep. The car had already been started and idled in reverse when Harrison came racing out of the front door and into the backseat.

“Hey, weren’t your trunks orange,” I asked, noticing that the swimming attire was now dark green – the same color of Harrison’s trunks.

“Don’t think so,” Knoble replied. A nervous look knitted his brows together.

+++

We dropped Knoble first, returning him to the café where his car sat untouched. A few minutes later, the Cadillac pulled curbside in front of my house. From where I sat in the passenger seat, I could see that my father had yet returned from work. I figured it was going to be another late night. He had seemed to be having a lot of those in recent months. At first, I hadn’t noticed, but Avery pointed it out to me one day and I quickly put the puzzle together.

Then, I realized…Avery! I had promised her an autograph.

I turned to Tom and smiled sheepishly. “I really don’t want to be one of those girls, but I forget to ask you something.”

“About my brother?” Tom looked nervous, the first I’d seen it in him.

I shook my head. “I kind of promised my sister I’d get an autograph from you. For her.” With each word, my voice rose in pitch. I was sure he would think I was a fumbling reporter even though I felt I’d proven myself worthy in his office.

He smiled, apparently more relaxed. “I don’t mind at all. Is your sister home?”

“Oh, yes, probably. I can probably run and grab one of her magazines?”

“Nonsense.” Tom killed the engine and opened the driver-side door.

“Oh, I don’t want to impose!”

“Please.” He stood from the vehicle and walked to my door, swinging it open without a squeak that so often came from Knoble’s. “I’d love to meet your sister.”

We walked up the stone path that led to the house, I feeling nervous about the situation and Tom looking at ease as usual. As we stepped onto the porch, the door swung open. I stumbled back but was caught by Tom’s extended arm. As he pulled away, having steadied me, I swore his fingers grazed my bottom.

“No. Way.” Avery stood in the open doorway, mouth agape and eyes filling with tears.

Tom looked to me, then back to Avery, and chuckled heartily. “Way.”

Avery screamed a piercing squeal that hurt my ears. “Enough, enough,” I pleaded. “You’ll burst our eardrums before he can even talk to you.”

“Sorry,” she giggled, then stepped back to allow us entrance.

No one besides Avery appeared to be home, which worked fine with me. Tom would sign whatever Avery had hidden inside her mattress and he’d be on his way. I just hoped he’d be out before my father returned. Celebrity or not, he would never approve of a boy in her home without adult supervision.

“Your sister tells me she has something you’d like signed,” Tom said, pulling a pen from his pants pocket.

Avery nodded vigorously. “Yeah! Wait here and I’ll get them.”

“Them?” Tom whispered, a playful tone to his voice.

I rolled my eyes and whispered back. “You said you’d be happy to meet her.”

Twenty minutes and eight magazines later, Avery was satisfied and Tom’s right hand cramped. With her magazines all signed, you would think she had been given gold. She thanked him -- surprising both us when she threw her arms around his waist -- and took off to conceal her contraband.

“One of those magazines has a poolside photo shoot, by the way,” Tom teased once Avery had left the room.

I covered my face in embarrassment. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think she’d have so many.”

“It’s not a problem. Really.” Tom fished in his polo pocket and I figured it was for a cigarette. I was just about to scold him for such an act when he revealed a scrap piece of paper. He scribbled something on it with his pen and handed it over.

I glanced down in wonder. “A phone number?”

“My phone number,” he corrected. “Use it, especially if you need something. I’m almost always home.”

“You’re famous,” I quipped. “How is that possible?”

“I’m good at balancing my schedules.”

We stepped out onto the front porch then, the sun setting beneath the cacophony of L.A. buildings. While Tom seemed to be admiring the sky’s changing colors, all I could do was admire him. I wondered how a simple interview had become so much so fast.

Tom turned and met my eyes. “Today was wonderful, Miss Halion.”

“Meghan,” I corrected him.

“Pardon?”

“If I have to call you Tom, you have to call me Meghan.”

Tom shrugged, a grin on his lips. “That seems fair. Meghan it is.”


End file.
